Chapter Text
??? — May 12th, 1998
??? — May 12th, 1998
The street where she set her table was empty at this hour, and the thinnest layer of fog waltzed slowly around them. Dark corners and ghastly tricks used to spook her, but in the months she’d spent playing her part as a spiritual counselor in the Yorbian continent, Botan found she quite liked the drama that came with the job.
As empty as it was, it wasn’t really silent, that street, courtesy of her client. That one harshly slammed a hand on the table, palm coming down on the rough wood like lead.
“That’s some crap!”
Pigtails bounced—golden, and thick, and curled—framing a deceptively young face as smooth and delicate as a doll’s. Wrapped in red and pink ruffles, with the temperament of a tiger, was Bisky Krueger—55.
Bisky was an unusual client. A wealthy, not-too-desperate one, but whose senses were sharp enough to be led to Botan by cobblestones, rather than by rumors and exclusive tips from those who dealt in monsters, and curses, and filthy amounts of jennies.
“You’re as noisy as you look. Too bad most of this is complete slander! That’s what you con-artists do—exploit insecure people’s fears and secrets! Who told you all that?!”
Botan resisted the urge to sink into herself. ‘Most of it, alright.’
Dice sat before them, among knocked-over pawns and a pencil that had been snapped in half. Red lingered on Botan’s skin, her knuckles tender from their earlier hand-wrestling game. For someone so small, Bisky was the type of client who still made that mission somewhat scary. Might give Genkai something for her money, even!
The book of Enma was her last true barrier from the roaring beauty. Though it was the strongest still: cut her deep and read her to filth. There was little fists could do in the face of truth.
“It’s written right here,” Botan said, “I’m never wrong. In 1968, you and your former friend Kathy started up an underground business of special lotions, Dolly&Creams. Your success was moderate for that time, but you found an audience among athletes and young women. All went downhill in 1969, when Kathy lost her nen affinity due to an ill-advised prototype you insisted she used. You had your doubts about that lotion, that’s why someone had to try it first. And, what better victim than Kathy Botrel? Friend, admittedly, but eternal rival…?” She jabbed a dramatic finger in Bisky’s direction.
Bisky narrowed her eyes. Her voice kept light and high, but it trembled at the edge of each word. “What are you insinuating?”
“I’m not insinuating anything. Merely dramatizing your past. But you lied. You never tried it on yourself after Kathy did. You had your reserves, but you couldn’t show the same consideration for her. Why’s that?”
“Eh, I told her she could not try it… if she didn’t want to.”
“… After Kathy suffered severe side effects resulting in a gradual loss of nen, she left the project. The quality of the brand’s products quickly declined and the licence sunk, since your marketing methods were—to put it nicely—pretty dodgy. By the end of 1970, your glory was over and name forgotten. You were lucky. People never made the connection between you and Dolly&Cream.” She turned the last page, lips pursed. “Neither Kathy nor you have tried to speak to each other in almost 30 years. Although she hoped you’d come out of your shell for a long time… That hope’s probably gone by now.” A pause. Then a pointed scowl. “You’re horrible, you know that?”
Bisky huffed, nose turned-up in the air. But the way her fingers messed with the table’s frayed wood betrayed her nerves. “What am I supposed to do then?”
“Apologize. Normal people do that, among other things.” Botan snorted at the glare Bisky launched her way. “But yeah, make amends. The rest should follow.”
“And how? What does your special book say?”
“That’s for you to find out. Anyone who’s bright enough to screw things up is well capable enough to fix their mistakes.” She paused. “You’ve been basking in bitterness for a while now.”
“Oh shut it, you.”
Botan swallowed her indignant quip and went quiet. She watched as the older woman’s face slowly lost its edge, scowl softening to a frown. If one looked hard enough, they could almost see memories play out behind Bisky’s round eyes.
Bisky leaned sideways against her chair, arm slung across the back and chin propped on her wrist. A sigh—the kind of yearning for bygone times. “She was good, you know? Very good. Our master always said we made a great team.” Her eyes fell to the pawns, as she picked two blue horses, swirling them between her fingers. “I was a brat back then. If you’re sneaky and dodgy in advance, no one can one-up you or humiliate you later. I always thought Kathy would try something. Not sure, when exactly this became a concern… But it was obvious. And now, you say I was the problem all along.” She sighed again, looking terribly tired in that moment. “Suppose I knew.”
Botan’s shoulders slumped, her eyes softened. “Better late than never, you know?”
She scoffed, dropping the pawns in a clatter. “So what? You think I deserve a second chance? You’ve made me sound terrible.”
“Give yourself a second chance, yes. Don’t expect much from her. Sometimes they think you don’t deserve one. And they’d be right from their angle.”
“Great,” Bisky rolled her eyes, “Why don’t you convert in motivational coaching? Clearly got the talent for that.”
Botan pulled her tongue at her. She used to be better at cheering people up, but white lies and false hopes don’t do much good for humans. “I’m simply saying—do your best. Even if it doesn’t work out, you’ll have a rested conscience, and you’ll be able to go back to being a cat-fishing grandma who spends fortunes in rococo-adjacent ‘fits to secretly wrestle mountains into dust.”
“Now,” Bisky’s eyes narrowed, gesturing to Botan’s cloak with a grimace. “You’re one to talk. You look like you stole that getup from an unfortunate fellow’s crypt. Can’t you wear glitters and trinkets like your peers?”
“…Well,” Botan looked down at herself. Her trusty robes. More stern than her usual pink kimono, and sparkly gloss and peachy blush. They didn’t exactly scream trustworthy, though. “The dead’s fashion always comes back in at some point—or so we all hear, I’m certain. Blacks, and greys, and… pinks… and bloody charred chains are…cute! Makes me seem a bit more serious, no? The cross’ kinda nice too, don’t you think? I did pick that one up from an abandoned chapel near York Shin when I lost my old one. It’s fine though, it was plastic anyway. And that was months ago—”
Biskey gave her an incredulous look, causing Botan to trail off with a nervous giggle. She then humphed, chair lightly scrapping against the cobblestones as she stood. From her pocket, she retrieved a hefty amount of bills and slammed them on the table.
Botan raised a questioning brow. “I’ve charged you already.”
“For the added trouble.” Bisky said, her eyes trained over the bruise on Botan’s right hand. She gestured to it with her chin, “Sure you’ll be alright?”
A beat passed before Botan realized what she was referring to. “Oh don’t worry about it! I’m fine,” she wriggled her fingers for emphasis. “It doesn’t even hurt anymore. But man you must slap hard—”
“Want a taste of that too, perhaps?”
She gulped. “Nah. I’m good. You actually mean well, though. I’m sure you’ve got it in you to treat and help others towards greatness if you embrace that. You’re wiser today.”
But Bisky was already walking away, waving a hand with a muttered ‘yeah, yeah’ as if she wasn’t listening to her anymore. She turned around a last time, a haughty scowl on her face, but her lips danced at the corners. “I’m going to apologize to Kathy. There. You know. So don’t go spying on me, now, ay? Or I’ll find you again.”
Botan huffed a small laugh, genuine, but not much happiness in it. “Come again. It’ll be my pleasure.” She wasn’t sure how Bisky thought she would find her.
Once Bisky had reached the very end of the street, around the corner, her features swam in a daze. Then, a surprised expression flashed across her face. She looked around, disoriented, her eyes barely skimming the spot where Botan still sat—as if an invisible hand had just grabbed from her the last hour, and twisted it, taking all the details with it.
Grumbling under her breath, she eventually disappeared around that corner and never came back.
Bisky just forgot about her. Botan’s face got chalked away, and her voice was distorting in Bisky’s mind, tone rearranged to sound different. In a few days, their conversation won’t be faint memories of one anymore, it’ll become a truth swimming around the doll-like woman’s mind as thought she’d came up with it herself. A pressure to seek Kathy. And well, if she won’t, then, in a few weeks—like every thought did—that truth might fade and that hour would become pointless. Botan and the book of Enma’s word never overstayed their welcome. The first of three rules for this gig.
Botan leafed through Bisky’s pages one last time. In the margin, a peculiar note: the lotion that drew Bisky’s doom had been inspired by a demon craftsman, who steadily manufactured a selection of products in this world’s underground for the last 43 years.
Her eye twitched. The Beautiful Suzuki.
A vision of the demon laughing with exaggerated flair, spiky blonde hair swaying, a handsome painted face, and colorful clothes dancing in the wind conjured in her mind.
Koenma had to know about that, somehow… wouldn’t he?
Flymire City, October 15th, 1998 — Dealing Metropolis, Yorbian Continent, under Spirit World observation.
Proximity to interdimensional rifts: High (Affinity with Level 3 of the Demon Realm — Twin City: Mushiyori)
To: Spirit World Bureau—Responder #345
Subject: The Metropolis of Gargoyles and whispers
Locals living near the veil say sightings have started. Some kind of reptilian chimeras, just as big as grown adults, hissing and quick—according to merchants, anyway. But I haven’t seen any. No disappearance yet, from what I’ve heard. Or at least none that caught attention yet. I assumed poking my nose any more deeply might disrupt the veil’s balance or set off some suspicions, so I’ve tried to keep clear.
Word has it the current leader’s introducing his new collaborator tomorrow night. The parade will be in celebration of this new alliance—or so locals believe. The last time I spoke to Shunjun and Rena, they thought so too. Could be the Witch, or the General. They’re tight lipped over there. Then again, my trusted contact was ferried to your doors last week under strange circumstances. You haven’t updated me on that yet!
Awaiting protocol confirmation (May you remember to send it this time. I don’t want to be caught in a demonic storm or suddenly smuggled away to be trafficked underground—while on my way to buy ice cream in pjs—because I’ve violated rules his Highness and you lots have brainstormed last minute. Thanks.)
I appreciate your efforts and attention, always,
Botan.
Ps: The counseling business has wrapped up until further notice. My last request went awry: I’ve received the money but the form kit might have been defective? Doesn’t help that the client used a pseudonym I’m pretty sure. Relchor Hollow, it says. Could someone look it up later this week?
15/10/98
For one of Flymire’s calmer areas, the folks were rather rattled, fussing much more over the bloody parade than downtown’s people. No wonder, this area had historically suffered the most disappearances and apparitions when celebrations approached. The urban lore was rich.
Botan herself had woken up with an awful itch, down and up her back and to her nape. The kind that was a sign in itself. Bad or good? ‘Probably bad,’ she thought, ‘Nothing good comes from an itch that makes you want to flay yourself.’ She sucked it up, and had tried to consider this morning like any other, for her sake at least. Joked with the overly nervous barista, until he’d accidentally dropped her order on her shoes right as she had reached for it. She hadn’t been the only victim, though, to the point the dreadful manager was out of threats and curses. The gentleman next in line had offered to pay for her second smoothie, all smiles and a voice that instantly soothed the mood.
Outside, organizers and workers argued over which sides to clear for last-minute prop-placement plans; deflated ballons in shapes and colors that might have been knights or dragons laid over the pavement. Parents kept their children nestled to their flanks, or avoided bringing them out at all. Some stores had closed for the week.
A group of young men wildly discussed the ‘Witch’ as they longed at a table in the back, looking over their shoulders every time a woman entered the cafe. They had squinted at Botan, whispering amongst themselves, wildly scribbling on a notepad as if they had seen the spirit hiding under her human skin and the tricking girlie blouse and skirt. When they did that for the 5th woman that morning, she felt safe enough to stay and eavesdrop.
She had taken a table by the windows, with a plush and soft sofa-like double-seat of fake leather that smelled freshly wiped. Her handwriting had gotten better lately, but it was still stiff and wriggled when the letter loops were too broad. She sipped her smoothie and listed down on her journal all relevant details for the day’s report.
As she worked, someone slipped in the seat across from her like they owned the place—a contended sight that sounded like a man’s.
Her eyes snapped up and she let out a surprised sound. He was dressed in all black, his t-shirt comfortable yet crisp. A white bandana tied around his head, framed by strands of hair as dark as crows. Jade globes hung from his ears, polished and almost glowy as they caught the light. They looked expensive.
Recognition flashed behind her eyes, “You were the kind man who paid for the drink!” She realized she was pointing at him and quickly drew her hand back, sheepish. “I-I’m sorry. Can I help you with anything? I’d pay you back but I don’t have any change left…”
’What a rude thing to extort money from a lady, if that’s that! Was his kindness just for show?’
After a beat, he lifted his head from the thin catalogue he was reading—furnitures it seemed—and met her stare with inky, round eyes. Only long enough for her to fidget with her pen, before he started looking around the cafe, as if disappointed.
“Is this where you’re offering your counseling nowadays?” The same polite, soothing voice from earlier. She almost missed the mention of counseling if not for his next words. “Not quite as whimsical as I imagined. They speak of you like a legend, almost as if fog and bells followed in your wake.”
“Erm… I’m sorry, do I know you or…?”
He huffed under his breath. A stifled laugh. “I do hope you know me.”
Before she could say anything else, he held towards her a folded sheet of paper between two finger. A small, too all-knowing smile playing on his lips.
She hesitated before tugging it free, more quickly than she had intended. As she unfolded the paper, the first thing she noticed was the torn off edge. The cut wasn’t clean, as if someone had torn it in a hurry. Then her itch peaked and turned to goosebumps—a chill kissing her back.
Botan’s eyes widened when they focused on the name written in bold letters among the first few lines. And a too-familiar seal. Hers.
“Relchor Hollow. I’ve reached out three weeks ago. This is surprising…” he spoke again, “From the little I’ve heard, you don’t have a reputation of ghosting your clients before answering their request.”